When Love Is True
by LisaB1991
Summary: A continuation of Tom and Rachel's story, post season 2. Rated T just to be safe, I do not own anything.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Hi and welcome to my very first The Last Ship fanfiction piece! I'm a huge Tom x Rachel shipper (is there a name for them yet? I've seen so many versions online, like Tomchel, Rachandler etc., but is there an official one yet?), and to be honest: the season 2 finale gave me so many feels. Like, the final scene of Tom and Rachel together? Perfection. The last scene of the episode? Not so perfect. They left us with a lot of guesswork until the season 3 premiere, and I just had to write something for them to ease my withdrawal symptoms. So, here you go.

This first chapter is pretty angsty, I promise that any upcoming updates will have a lighter tone. I do know where I want this story to end, I'm just not so sure yet about how I'm going to get there. But I will, eventually. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language, and that any mistakes are mine.

Sadly, I do not own this show, or its characters.

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Something was wrong. She sensed it, though she had no idea what had caused it. She was a doctor, a scientist, she had learned to recognize, to determine that something was amiss, without as much as a spoken word.

The air around her felt thick, it was making it hard for her to breathe. Her body ached, but she had no idea where the actual source of her suffering came from. All she could see was darkness, if she even had the ability to see, she wasn't sure. Her eyelids felt heavy, her limbs felt heavy. Was she able to move at all? At times she thought she could _hear_ , but the sounds didn't seem familiar to her. It was as if she was in a large space, hollow, yet occupied with thousands of people, buzzing, echoing, but no words actually came through to her. Beeping, constant beeping, with an annoying underwater sound effect. This was nuts. Maybe _she_ was nuts.

Suddenly, it felt as if she was pulled back into the mist, a bottomless pit. Cold fingers gripped her heart, it scared her. She tried to reach, to kick her way up, back unto the surface. But she was too weak. How she hated to be weak. She detested it. But she couldn't fight it, it was useless. The darkness enveloped her once again, as she felt herself slip into unconsciousness, the anchor to which she was strapped finally hitting the bottom of the ocean.

The next time she drifted upwards towards the surface, her head was clearer, though she wasn't able to control her limbs yet. She tried to focus, but couldn't find anything to hold on to. That is, until she heard _him_.

Tom.

Her mind, her whole being suddenly clung to him. Thomas Chandler, the elemental male, stubborn, tough.. and his sea blue eyes, which sometimes used to glitter down at her with a tender look in them, made him a man she found impossible to resist. Snippets of a monologue, spoken through his low, rough voice, gave her something to hold onto.

"When will she wake up?" She couldn't quite make out the answer that was given to his question, which more or less sounded more like a demand for intel than a simple inquiry after her health. How typical. The answer the doctor gave him, was undoubtedly that they didn't know, that it was completely up to her now. Rachel had enough medical experience to know that there was nothing they could do, but to wait. The only problem was that now, instead of the messenger, she was the direct object. Interesting change in point-of-view, she thought bitterly.

"Rachel? Rachel, can you hear me?"

Yes, yes Tom! Yes, I can hear you, loud and clear.

"I know you can hear me, Rachel. Wake up."

Oh Tom, you and your commands. We're both perfectly aware of the fact that I am far from a member of your crew, but still.. I want to obey your every order now more than ever. If only I could get my body to obey. But I'm here, Tom. I'm here.

"Please.." Wait. Was that..? Was that a sob?

"God, please. Rachel, please wake up. I.. We need you."

The next moment, images flashed before her eyes. Rachel wanted to shake her head, to clear her head from the gruesome memories. She saw people, dying. She couldn't control it, the images flashed continiously in high speed. She saw people that were dear to her, and people that she'd never met, or at least, they didn't seem familiar. Rachel tried to focus, tried to steer away, but it was no use. She could hear people, screaming at her, begging her to come and help her. Most of the images were hazy, but from time to time, various people stood out, as if they had come forward through the mist. She then saw her mother, her face covered in sweat.

Her precious mother was lying on a pile of recently deceased people, and Rachel felt sick to the stomach when she realized the Chandler children were among them. Rachel choked on her unshed tears, as her eyes focused on a blonde woman, her lifeless arms protectively hugging her deceased daughter and son, her face turned away from her. It was as if, even in death, Darien Chandler couldn't bear the sight of her.

A single tear ran down Rachel's cheek, as she desperately tried to get to her own dying mother, who held her hand out for her, begging her to save her. "Rachel…" Her mother's bloodless, cracked lips formed her name, but all that came out was a weak whisper. Yet that one word rang in Rachel's head like an alarm, as she frantically tried to will her legs to move. But she couldn't, because it seemed as if something, or someone, was holding her back.

Suddenly, the scenery changed, and she was inside the lab where her mentor, Julius Hunter, was killed. She could hear the gunshots, and she didn't hesitate for a second, as she flew across the hallway, her sole instinct to get to him, to save him. But she was too late. When she reached the room, she saw her mentor sliding towards the floor, his life's blood spilling from his wounds. He looked up at her, his eyes large and wild with surprise and horror, his lips moving as he was gasping for air. She then heard Tom's voice bellowing through her ears, "You don't get to decide what is right!" and she looked down, shock and self loathing flowing through her veins as she saw the gun in her shaking hands. It was she, who had given Dr. Julius Hunter the fatal blow.

Discusted with herself, she threw the gun through the room, only to be transferred back to the Nathan James' medical bay, with her very capable captain rolling up his shirt sleeve to give Rachel better access to vaccinate him. With the syringe in hand, she stepped closer to the bed. The light falling on his wedding band made her hesitate for a moment, and she blinked, once, twice, before looking up again. She was shocked to see her father standing there in front of her, his backed turned towards her, while he was looking down at Tom, blocking her own view of the man. Her father then turned around, his eyes void of emotions.

"Rachel," he whispered, and she unconsciously took a step backwards, taken aback by his presence. Her father shook his head at her, smacking his lips. "You stupid girl. How in the world could you possibly believe that you could save him? Only the Lord decides who lives and dies," his words echoed through her head, as long forgotten memories and pain coursed through her veins. The last time he had said those words in her presence, was when her mother lay dying with malaria, and all he did was standing there, doing nothing to save his wife.

She then pushed her father out of the way, but stood transfixed a moment after. Commander Thomas Chandler, Captain in the United States Navy, lay lifeless on the bed, the effects of the deadly virus a silent witness as unseeing eyes looked up at her. Her hestitation had cost him his life.

And then, finally, after a week of unconsciousness, she woke up.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** : **Wow. Just wow. To tell the truth, I was pretty anxious when I posted the first chapter of this fic, and I never expected such an amazing response! I love reading your reviews and pms, they truly make my day, and your messages are a huge inspiration. I hope I can live up to the expectations, and I truly look forward to the journey we're going to make with Tom and Rachel.**

 **With this chapter I jump back in time, starting at the exact same mometwe all loved: Tom and Rachel's flirty convo outside his suite. This time we focus on Tom, and his struggles when it comes to his feelings for his recently deceased wife, and our beloved Dr. Rachel Scott. He's about to realize that not all things in life can be planned, but that's a fact I'll let him realize in the next chapter.**

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He instantly regretted letting her go. The final look she had given him before turning around to stroll along the corridor towards her own suite had nearly made him question his resolve to not follow her or invite her in for a drink, at least. It just felt wrong. He wasn't ready to say goodbye to her – didn't want to think about the months ahead of not seeing her, after spending so much time together, for more than a half year. And yet, he decided it was better this way.

The dress she wore clung faithfully to every curve of her lithe body. It was a nice change from her usual preference to tight jeans and loose sweaters. Tom was fully aware that he wasn't a real man if he didn't admit to himself that he liked what he saw when he looked at her. The tight jeans she usually wore accentuated her long, graceful legs, and the snug fit of denim across her backside suggested things to him he'd tried to steer away from desperately. Besides, her mission had been to produce the cure onboard his ship, under his protection, so he had absolutely no business taking note of anything beyond her qualifications to do the job she had been assigned to do.

But who was he kidding? He'd been married for more than fifteen years, so he wasn't any wet-behind-the-ears kid. And the fact that Dr Rachel Scott had never been a flirt with him on purpose, didn't mean he was oblivious to the attraction between them. Rachel managed to challenge him in every way, something he hadn't been used to. But having her aboard his ship for so many months, knowing what she had been through, the sacrifices she had made… Tom was sure there wasn't another woman like her in ten thousand. And that knowledge made her even more attractive in his eyes. Having her around him was like taking that first invigorating breath of biting spring air; not even his late wife had ever had such an impact on him.

Tom sighed as he finally turned around and opened the door to his suite. Thinking about both women and his feelings for them made him tense, and he suddenly felt as if his tie lay to tight around his neck, despite the fact that he had loosened the knot a while ago. The contents of the envelope Rachel had given him seemed to burn through the thin layer of paper. He would make sure the President would receive it, first thing in the morning. Right now, he desperately needed some time alone, to think things through. Reaching to untie the offending pieces of cloth around his neck, he absentmindedly laid his combination hat, along with Rachel's memento, on the dresser with his other hand.

After shrugging off his heavy double-breasted Service Dress Blue uniform jacket, he neatly hung it on the back of a chair, feeling as if an unknown weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. Next, he unbuttoned the second button of his shirt; he already had unbuttoned the first one when he decided to leave the party a mere ten minutes ago. Unfastening his cufflinks to roll up his sleeves for more comfort, he stepped over to the minibar to pour himself a much-needed drink. There wasn't much to choose from, so he picked a long-necked beer bottle. He wasn't in the mood for vodka, anyway.

Vodka. Russians. The Vyerni. Ruskov. Rachel's lips pressed firmly on his. _Rachel_. It was as if his treacherous mind wouldn't leave him alone, and had been waiting for him to let the memories of that night come to the surface. Tom sighed as he closed his eyes, remembering his confusion, his irritation when he had leveled his gaze on her as the guards brought him into the room. She had been the last person he had expected, hell, had _wanted_ to see there. She, and he knew it was with Mike's approval, had put herself in such an incredible danger. Damn it, this woman was fearless, or at least had no regard for her own safety. He would have admired it in any member of his crew, but not with her. She was reckless, and it put him on edge. It was his job to protect her, to safe her if necessary, not the other way around. He knew she knew perfectly well, but he had been unaware of her motives. Until she had moved towards him, embracing him, slamming her lips against his.

He had been shocked at first, had felt the urge to step away, to drag his mouth from hers. It was wrong; he was married, for God's sake! The last woman he had kissed had been his wife, and he had had every intention for Darien to be the next he kissed since last time. But the moment he had felt her tongue begging for entrance, he had melted. And as her tongue had mated forcefully with his, feeling the secret object she had been carrying with her slide into his mouth along with her saliva, he knew that this had been the right choice. Mike had been right to send her here, and not just because of the mission. Had his hands not been tied together, he knew he would have pulled her closer, to have every inch of her body pressed to his, his fingers speared into her hair. Yes, it was wrong. Yes, he would feel damned guilty about it. Because, yes, he dearly loved his wife. He had vowed to love her, to honor her, and to forsake all others.

Darien. His darling wife, his Polaris. She had given him so much, and he felt that he had failed her. He had been too late to safe her, too late to tell her how much he loved her, one last time. It hurt, more than words could tell, how much he missed her. Her death had formed a hole in his heart, which he had thought for a long time, would be unhealable. And it wasn't as if Rachel's presence in his life made his burden more bearable, or dulled the ever-present ache in his heart. He wasn't ready to move on just yet. But she was a welcome distraction, in a good way, a handful and a half with a pretty face and a habit to defy him at every turn. He had welcomed her feisty nature, it felt refreshing, but put him on edge as well. She had a habit of going toe-to-toe with him; he sure as hell would never have tolerated such behavior from any of his crewmembers.

Tom sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs next to the window, sitting in the dark as he looked outside, without actually seeing anything. He had neglected grieving for Darien for far too long. Now that their mission was completed for now, and they were on safe land once again, Tom felt he was finally able to let it all go. He would send for his family, eager to make sure they would not be parted again for a very, very long time. He had missed the kids, but the knowledge that they were safe, with the loving care of his father and Kelly Tophet, seemed to have eased some of his suffering. The fact the President had notified him of his pending promotion to Chief of Naval Operations hadn't completely penetrated just yet. His mind was still too preoccupied with other recent events – Valkyrie, the sinking of the sub, the large crowd waiting for them and the cure, here in St. Louis.

And now, the fact that Rachel was leaving. Neither of them knew how long she would be gone. The sudden letdown he felt at the thought astonished him, and he realized he didn't want her to go, didn't want her to leave him at all. Once again, his contradicting feelings shocked his being – it was just plain wrong to feel this way, wasn't it? How could he have feelings for a woman when he hadn't even begun to cope with his grief and loss of his late wife? It didn't make any sense.

He sat there in total silence, beer bottle in hand, absentmindedly rubbing his fingers over the slight stubble on his chin, for what seemed like hours. A sudden, hard noise brought him out of his reverie. His head shot upwards, as he leveled his eyes on the door. It was a single gunshot in the corridor, not far away from his suite, he realized.

Years of training had prepared him for moments like this, and he swiftly but silently crept towards the door, with right left hand on his handgun, which he had clipped to the back of his belt at all times. He reached the door, and put his left hand on the cold wooden surface, before letting it slide down towards the handle. He had his breathing under control, his eyes were focused and his jaw was set. As he pricked up his ears to determine if he could hear footsteps or any other sound coming in his direction, he pulled his gun from the holster to the front of his chest, flipping off the safety.

The corridor seemed silent, so Tom didn't hesitate for a second as he switched the door handle down, before taking a half step back to swiftly pull the door open. The corridor was indeed deserted, but Tom was vigilant as he pressed his back against the wall, and made his way down the corridor. He halted at every corner, at every opening in the wall, his gun always at the ready, making sure any makeshift hiding place was deserted. When he reached the adjoining corridor, which led into the direction of the ballroom and large lobby, he could hear an overwhelming uproar, which had nothing to do with the festivities that had been going on there mere moments ago.

But Tom stayed focused, because he knew for a fact that the loud pang hadn't come from that direction. It had come from further along the corridor, from around the corner. The corner, where…

Where Rachel had been headed, where…

Where he knew her suite was.

He could feel the color drain from his face and his eyes grew wide as realization struck him. Shit, Rachel! Rachel!

He felt his heart in his throat as he leaped forward, all thoughts about caution and his own safety forgotten. He had to reach her, make sure she was all right!

Looking back, Tom knows now that he would never be able to forget the horrific scene that played out in front of his eyes when he rounded the corner that fatal night. He knew the images would haunt him for a very long time; maybe until the day he'd die. Every detail, every moment is engraved in his mind's eye. Her limp body laying on the floor, one dainty hand on her upper right chest, the other laying lifeless across her stomach. From where he stood, frozen to the spot, he could hear her labored breathing, as she tried and failed to move her head.

Tom was beside her in a matter of seconds, his heart thudded wildly as he dropped to his knees beside Rachel. His hands roamed her upper body for gunshot wounds, as his eyes took in her pale face. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were pressed into a thin line, as small pearls of sweat began to bead on her forehead.

"Rachel?"

His mouth was dry, and his voice sounded alien to him, but still the sound of his baritone voice seemed to bring Rachel around.

"T-Tom?" she stuttered, blinking as she tried to open her eyes, to focus on him, only him. She'd recognize his voice everywhere.

"Rachel what happened? Who-" His hands froze as he took in the large pool of blood that had formed on the carpet, next to her shoulder and neck. It was then that he realized she had tried to stop the bleeding herself by pressing her hand near her collarbone.

"Upper right chest, Tom," she whispered, and she slowly removed her left hand from her wound, revealing the source of the wound. Tom felt his stomach turn when he caught sight of the black stain of blood that had covered most of the front of the bodice of her dress. Because the dress was black it had been hard to notice at first, because he was so focused on her face. Tom quickly stripped off his dress shirt and folded it in record time, before pressing it against Rachel's wound, trying his best to stop the flow of blood.

Countless times he had been confronted with sights like these, whether it was his own blood from his own wounds, or members of his crew that had been wounded in battle. This time though, everything was different. Because they had dared to hurt _her_.

Rachel gasped, and distinct lines of pain marred her face as Tom continued the pressure on the wound in her shoulder.

"I-it was one of t-the immunes, Tom," Rachel choked out, having trouble to keep her eyes open, as she reached out to touch his forearm.

"You need to stop him, protect the President," she pleaded, as her cold clammy hand landed on his thickly muscled forearm to fortify her words. Rachel tried to swallow once, twice. She was amazed that even in her situation, she was able to observe his masculinity.

Tom swore under his breath, his eyes bright and hard as he tried to hold her gaze. "Damn it Rachel, do you never worry about your own safety? The President is perfectly safe, I'm sure," though in truth he wasn't quite certain if that was the case, but the only person he was worrying himself over right now, was her.

Rachel chuckled before she grimaced from the pain as a coughing fit shook her upper body. When it was over, she breathed with difficulty, but her heavy lidded eyes were focused on his once again.

"Why would I worry about myself when I know I have a very capable Captain who'll do that for me just fine?" A small smile played on her lips, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Yeah, as if I did such a good job in protecting you," Tom answered bitterly, his jaw set. Rachel weakly shook her head at his remark, instantly regretting having said it. "Don't blame yourself for this, Tom," she pleaded, her eyes drifted closed, her voice trailing away as she added, "I could never blame you – for anything."

Tom felt the tears burn but refused to let them fall. Not yet. She would be fine, he would make sure if it. He would not fail her a second time.

"Rachel?" Tom gently shook her, but she didn't respond. She had lost consciousness, and he realized it was only a matter of time now. He quickly acted, sitting up on his heels as he gently slid his hands under her, minding her head and the exit wound on her back as he gently picked her up, carrying her bridal style through the corridors towards the ballroom, his blood stained dress shirt lay on the floor, forgotten.

"Stay with me, Rachel," he whispered, as he felt the soft tremors that shook her lithe body. "Hang on, girl. You'll be just fine, and I'll not fail you again. Not this time."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Google is my best friend when I do my research. Please take into consideration that I have absolutely zero knowledge when it comes to medical situations or aviation. I did the best I could, and if there are any mistakes, feel free to point them out. Of course, I don't own anything, which is a pity. If I had, I would have made Tomchel canon by now, and you'd all be notified of the fact that Dr. Scott lives.**

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What was meant to be a night of relaxation and festivities for the crew of the USS Nathan James, ended in a night of total disaster and chaos. After Tex and the crew had finished their chantey, the group fell silent for a short time, each of them lost in their thoughts. Some of them had the hint of a smile angled across their mouths, others had a determined, almost stoic look on their faces, but all of them had a faraway look in their eyes.

Expect for Lt. Green and Lt. Foster, who were oblivious to their surroundings, completely smitten with each other and the resent turn of events in their relationship. Finally, Bertrise's gasp could be heard, as she had turned and had taken in the sight before her; the two lovers entwined in a tight embrace, Kara's chin resting on Danny's shoulder, as she held out her hand, examining the sparkling silver engagement ring on her finger, silent tears of unprecedented joy streaming down her face.

A short time after that, the crowd erupted in applause and roars of joy, as various crewmembers stepped forward to congratulate the young couple. Reluctantly, Danny and Kara disentangled, accepting their fellow shipmate's and officer's congratulations, along with an occasional kiss on the cheek and a pat on the back. Another round of champagne (and one water) was ordered, and two hundred and three sailors of the Nathan James, along with their civilian friends, decided to elongate the festivities; tomorrow, along with its many obligations – and the inevitable headaches – could wait a little longer.

They were all oblivious to the fact that the CO was no longer among them, along with Dr. Scott. They were also unaware of the fact that, in the meantime, the President had decided to pardon Dr. Scott for her crimes at sea, and that she would be leaving tomorrow, for a grand tour so to say, in order to spread the cure further inland.

Moments later, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot being fired startled them, and the ballroom immediately fell silent. In a matter of seconds, XO Mike Slattery took control, ordering various teams to swipe the corridors and secure all the exits, because no matter what was going on, no one was getting in or out without questioning and identification checks. Miller, Wolf and Cruz were assigned to assure POTUS was safe, and they were to guard the Presidential Suite at all times. The children, along with Bertrise and Kathleen, were to be escorted to the storage rooms.

After a rapid mental counting of heads, Slattery came to the conclusion that at least two people were absent from the ballroom when the gunshot had rung out. And those two were basically in potential danger at all times, Slattery thought bitterly.

A sick feeling of intuition stirred, and as he turned around towards the open doors of the ballroom, he realized one of his biggest fears had actually come true. Blood drained from his face as he took in the sight before him. His CO and best friend, whose usual handsome, erect military bearing was all gone, practically stormed down the corridor towards him. His fitted undershirt was stained with the life's blood of his precious cargo, which he carefully pressed against his chest in a protective manner. Dr. Rachel Scott lay in his arms like a wet rag doll, her head resting in the crook between his shoulder and neck, her right arm hung slack across her abdomen, while her other arm swung loosely back and forth against the rhythm of Tom's pace. Her eyes were closed, and her face was ghastly pale, covered in a fine layer of sweat.

As he entered the ballroom, Tom quickly scanned the spacious room, making sure there were only familiar faces around. He felt he was more than ready to take the person on who did this. From what he registered from the bustle around him, Tom deduced his XO had already given orders to most of the room's occupants. He saw the President being hastily escorted up the stairs by Miller, Wolf and Cruz. At least that was one thing less to worry about, he thought bitterly, as he quickly made his way towards the sofa near the bar.

"Doc, I need you here!" Tom bellowed, and both Rios and Milowsky were at his side instantly, medical bags in hand, pushing him out of the way to get better access to their patient. Rachel was still unconscious, but reacted nonetheless when her body lost contact with his; her brow furrowed, she turned her head to the side, her mouth opening and closing as if she were trying to speak, but no sound could be heard. Tom turned and moved to stand against the back of the sofa, leaning down to touch her cheek lightly, to which she immediately responded. A soft moan escaped her lips as Rios and Milowsky examined her wound, but Rachel kept her head turned in Tom's direction, her labored breathing filling his ears along with the sound of his blood rushing through his veins.

Tom wasn't paying attention to the doctors doing their jobs. He saw their worried pale faces, their open medical bags, her blood covering their capable hands, but none of it actually came through. "The bleeding has stopped. There's not much more we can do here, sir," Rios' voice came from far away, and at first, Tom didn't realize the man was talking to him. Mike's hand landed firmly on his shoulder, but it was the soft, almost apologetic squeeze of his fingers that brought Tom back to the present. "Tom, they stooped the bleeding, we need to move her."

"She's already lost a lot of blood, sir. We have stopped the bleeding as best as we can, but we don't have the proper facilities at hand here to determine how much damage has been done internally. We need to get her to the nearest district hospital to perform surgery."

Tom nodded, and turned his attention to his XO and best friend. "Is the James in dry dock yet?"

Mike nodded. "She is, Tom. But–"

"With all due respect, sir," Milowsky interrupted, aware of what the Captain was hinting at. His voice was stern, knowing he needed to have the upper hand now that Rachel's life was at stake, "she's lost a lot of blood, and she'll need a transfusion as quickly as possible, but there's only so much left of our supply on the James. Plus, we need a large medical team standby, so there is no way that we can successfully operate Dr Scott on the ship."

Tom sighed, and turned his head towards his best friend. "I suppose the hotel has a helipad?"

Mike nodded, his face grim. "There is. Seahawk has been refueled and is standby. I thought it best to ensure we have a possibility to safely evacuate POTUS in case of acute emergencies. Or medical emergencies, in this case..."

Tom let that sink in for a second, as he turned his gaze to Rios. Rios answered Tom's unspoken question, "The flight to the nearest hospital will take about fifteen minutes, sir," Tom's eyes lit up at the news. It was efficient and only logical to transport Rachel to the nearest hospital by helicopter. They had no idea how the road conditions would be, and they couldn't afford wasting any more precious minutes. But did Rachel have that much time?

"Is there a way to give her a transfusion in the helicopter?"

Dr. Rios glanced into his medical bag, before sticking his hand in to scramble around its contents to check. A triumphant smile lit up his face as he pulled out a set of needles and a plastic tube. "I believe we can. Does anyone know Dr. Scott's blood type?"

"She's A-positive," Tom answered without hesitation. He hadn't needed to think about that – he remembered from reading her file all those months ago.

All three men with him looked at him, surprised, but didn't ask how he was so sure, and how he had come to know this information when no one else knew. "So… Does any one of us share the same blood type as she does?"

Mike shook his head, "I'm A-negative," he answered ruefully, as if he'd gladly switch blood types if it were possible. Tom could still feel his blood rush through his veins, faster than before, or so it seemed, as if his own blood cells understood the meaning of this; he was, in fact, O-negative. He could give Rachel his blood, in order to safe her life. Tom opened his mouth to give voice to his thoughts, but Mike beat him to it. "Tom, you're O-negative. That means your blood can directly be transfused to her, isn't that right, Doc?"

Rios and Milowsky both turned their heads to look at Tom once again, who nodded. "That's fantastic, Captain! We'll set up the transfusion once we've safely reached the aircraft. But now, we need to move."

As if on cue, Tom, Mike, Milowsky and Rios moved to transport Rachel quickly and safely towards the helicopter. Because they had no gurney at their disposal, Tom lifted Rachel's body carefully off the sofa and into his arms, with both doctors at his side to be of help, should he need it. Mike led the way towards the east wing, where four large folding doors separated them from the chilly open air.

"Does anyone know how to fly this thing?" Milowsky's question had Tom and Mike exchanging a glance, before Mike reached to open the helicopter's sliding door. "I do, doctor," he replied, as he stood to the side to allow both doctors to get in first.

When Rios and Milowsky had both climbed in, they turned around to take Rachel from Tom, so he could climb in after them with use of both of his arms and hands. In the meantime, Mike had taken a few steps to his left to open the cabin door. After taking his seat, he reached for the headset and motioned his passengers to follow his example. Mike then mentally repeated all the necessary steps to get the helicopter ready for takeoff. Within minutes, they were all ready, and Mike pulled up slowly on the collective. His jaw clenched in concentration, as he then pushed the left pedal with his foot, while he kept pulling the collective with his left hand. While slowly rising off the ground, Mike made his next move by pushing the cylic forward. After that, the aircraft began to shudder, which resulted in a complaining moan escaping from Rachel's lips. Tom immediately reacted by leaning forward to place a hand on her uninjured shoulder. Rachel's eyes fluttered open, and closed again without actually seeing anything.

Taking some pressure off the collective, Mike increased the pressure on the cyclic. Seeing the airspeed indicator jump up, Mike then gently released some of the forward cyclic pressure, while the aircraft proceeded to climb and gained more speed.

Milowsky gently but expertly took Rachel's hand, placing his index and middle finger on her wrist. His brow furrowed, he rubbed her skin before placing both his fingers down again, with a bit more strength than before.

"Her pulse is weak, she's lost too much blood. If we don't act now, we will certainly lose her before touchdown."

Tom lifted his head rapidly when he heard those fatal words leaving the doctor's lips. "Start the transfusion. Now," he said quietly, while carefully moving a bit into the doctor's direction, extending his arm. Rios nodded, and started working on the direct transfusion between the stubborn captain and the unconscious doctor.

The helicopter flight lasted minutes that seemed like hours, or so Tom thought. He couldn't deny that Mike was an expert pilot, and that he was secretly glad he had his best friend by his side right now. Rachel's condition seemed to deteriorate by the minute; her breathing became shallow, and she felt cold to the touch. She was still unconscious, and it was clear that she was in a lot of pain. It seemed as if her body had shrunk, her skin looked ashen and felt damp to the touch. Rios expertly injected a syringe needle in the crook of their elbows, which were attached to an intravenous line.

Making sure he was as close to her as possible to ensure the blood flow kept going steadily from his arm to hers, but even more so to try and warm her with his body heat. He welt a bit relieved when he gradually saw a bit of color return to Rachel's cheeks, at least her body reacted well to his blood.

"How are you feeling, sir?" Milowsky inquired, but Tom shook his head. He was fine; all that mattered now was Rachel. He would be less tense, he told himself, if they made it to the hospital and Rachel was placed into the care of the best medical team St. Louis had to offer. He knew it was a lie; but telling lies to himself to distract him somewhat was better than to think of the worst possible scenarios. He had never been a pessimist; he had always believed positive outcomes were possible if he worked hard enough to achieve it. He wasn't a man given to pouting when things didn't go his way; Thomas Chandler was more of a man who, through strong will and determination, came against a problem again and again until he either ran roughshod over it or plowed his way through. Knowing there was nothing more he could do for her, other than stay by her side and give her his life's blood, made him feel helpless and useless. He wanted to blame himself for this so badly.

 _"_ _Don't blame yourself for this, Tom."_

Rachel's voice rang in his head. Her voice, though weak, had sounded so reassuring in that deserted corridor. And through her voice, she had showed him her trust. She trusted him, despite everything he had put her through. After everything he had put _the both of them_ through.

Tears stung as he took a shaky breath. Rachel was strong, she would pull through, she _had_ to! And when – not if, when – she woke up, he would make sure to make it up to her. Because he was absolutely sure she would survive this – and there was no way in hell he was going to let her go away. And most certainly not now. Never before in all his life had he met such a woman. Headstrong, intelligent, sweet, passionate, mysterious. These were only a few adjectives he could think of to describe Dr. Rachel Alice Scott. Those months they had spent in close proximity had made him fancy himself a rather good judge of character, hers in particular. Still, he knew that there was still a lot to learn about this woman. And he was eager to do so.

He was denied the opportunity to stand by Darien's side during her sickness and ultimate passing, and he would always hate himself for that, even though he was fully aware that it was useless. Darien was gone, and there was no force on earth he could use to bring her back, no matter how desperately he longed for her. And he always would, there was no doubt of that.

But he refused to let history repeat itself and take another person he held dear away from him. In a normal life, falling for another woman so shortly after his wife's death would be next to impossible, unthinkable and not to mention disrespectful to Darien and their love. But he couldn't help it. He had come to respect Rachel, to admire her. And trust and admiration had flowed into friendship, and friendship had turned into… Into what? Was it love? Affection? He wasn't sure. He wasn't exactly sure of anything at the moment, but he knew one thing: seeing Rachel lying lifeless on the floor, her life's blood trickling from her wounds, her skin ashen, her eyes devoid of the usual _joie de vivre_ they usually held in them… It had turned his whole world upside down. And right then, as he relived that awful moment, it seemed as if he was a spectator to a very, very bad play. He saw himself leaping towards her, as he stood there, a specter in the corner of the corridor. He heard himself calling out for her, his hands grasping, his breath hitching. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could have done, and it angered him. It just wasn't fair.

 _"_ _Don't blame yourself for this, Tom. I could never blame you – for anything."_

I will try, darling. I will try.


End file.
